4 - Ariadne
S ilence once tormented Ariadne to distraction with endless anxieties, but with an open window into Iona’s thoughts, she doesn’t feel the need to impose upon her with words.
She discerns the culmination of Iona’s grief mixed with conflicted, complicated emotions over the death of her grandfather.
She’d only just met him, and he’d died mere hours later.
He was her blood, but she had no real connection to him beyond that, and she does not approve of his fervid desire for conquest.
Ariadne holds her close and sings to her late into the night, until finally Iona falls into a fitful sleep.
It takes her much longer to drift off, her relentless musings impossible to stifle.
She would admittedly prefer to stay and help Jacira find the malefician, but she’s quite sure Iona couldn’t endure another confrontation.
Not so soon after defeating Elise. Ariadne is still reeling from it herself.
There is a persisting thought that Ariadne cannot shake.
It was very odd that Goncalo’s body was left at their doorstep, of all places.
If Jacira’s theory is true, that the malefician hoped to frame them for the offense, it still concerns her that the malefician knew of their presence in Brazil at all.
Perhaps it is only a coincidence… Perhaps Goncalo had only happened to be near the bungalow when he died.
He could have been waiting for them to return home so he might speak with them privately, without Jacira’s interference.
Deep in her gut, Ariadne isn’t so sure of anything, but if Jacira insists that she can handle this herself, they must respect it.
She and Iona deserve a proper holiday with friends, a true respite from all this misery and brutality.
By the morning, Ariadne is determined to make it so, for Iona’s sake at least.
When they’ve packed up their bungalow, Ariadne crafts a portal that leads to a cobblestone street.
Once they’ve stepped through to France, they trade lush greenery for quaint buildings and a grand cathedral with pointed spires.
An unexpected wave of apprehension befalls her at the sight of such familiar surroundings.
Iona senses it and looks at her in question.
“This way,” Ariadne says, offering her arm.
Iona takes it and says, “You’ve been here before?”
“Briefly. I became acquainted with Crescentia through a mutual friend, Euphemia. I told you of her, did I not?”
Iona looks away as she says, “Yes, you’ve mentioned her.”
Ariadne hides her grin. She’d told Iona of her fictitious rendezvous with Euphemia. It seems she is not keen on the subject.
“I first met Crescentia when she snuck into one of Euphemia’s parties uninvited,” Ariadne says, in an effort to divert Iona’s attention.
“That sounds like her,” she says, a small smile reaching her lips.
“She danced with every warlock in the room, twice. It was quite the spectacle,” Ariadne says wryly. “The other witches did not take kindly to being overlooked. They tried to force Crescentia out but luckily for her, Euphemia enjoys taking in strays.”
“What do you mean by that?” Iona asks.
“She prides herself in her eccentric social circle,” Ariadne says.
Iona ponders this with a furrowed brow, and she feels compelled to elaborate.
“Euphemia cares not where you are from or whose family you belong to. She revels in disrupting the order of things and wields the power of her name to uplift those around her,” Ariadne says, her fervent admiration evident in her tone.
“When will I have the pleasure of meeting her?” Iona asks.
“I expect she will attend Crescentia’s party,” Ariadne says. “And if not, she will certainly attend the summer solstice ritual. Everyone will be there.”
Ariadne winces when Iona’s stomach flips at the prospect. It will be her first time leading a ritual for a large crowd. They’d intended to hold Iona’s first ritual at college amongst friends, under the blood moon, but Elise had made that quite impossible.
“The solstice is still a week away,” Ariadne says, draping a comforting arm around her. “Do not fret over it now.”
She is about to say more when a sudden screech peels out from down the lane.
“Iona!” Crescentia calls as she sprints towards them, her honey blonde curls bouncing with every step. Iona runs to meet her, and they collide into an embrace.
“It has been an eternity of loneliness,” Crescentia cries.
“I’ve only been gone a month,” Iona laughs.
“Do not minimize my suffering,” she sniffs.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Iona giggles. “I’ve missed you terribly.”
Crescentia’s smile widens and she takes Iona’s hand. “Come, everyone is inside.”
It is only then that Crescentia glances at Ariadne and smiles politely. “Good day, Ariadne.”
“Good day,” Ariadne says, forcing a smile.
Crescentia nearly pulls Iona’s arm from its socket. “My family is here, and Erik as well. I simply must introduce you!”
“Of course,” Iona says, letting Crescentia whisk her away.
They enter a modest half-timbered house that Ariadne faintly recognizes. She’d never been inside, had only seen it through the window of Euphemia’s carriage on the way to some party or other. Crescentia throws open the front door and pulls Iona inside.
“She’s here!” Crescentia yells.
Ariadne closes the door behind them and sets their suitcase down against the wall. There is the bustling of animated conversations and tinkling of teacups against saucers coming from the adjoining sitting room. All goes quiet when the three of them enter.
“May I present Iona Lysander,” Crescentia says, barely able to contain her excitement.
“Evora,” Ariadne reminds her. Iona gives her a grateful look.
“Oh, of course! Iona Evora Lysander,” Crescentia corrects herself, but by then, everyone had already begun speaking over each other.
Ariadne leans against the door frame and watches as Iona is introduced to Crescentia’s entire family in short succession.
She can see each moment a new name appears in Iona’s mind only to disintegrate as Iona unintentionally forgets it.
Crescentia has five brothers and sisters, a vociferous mother, a stoic father, a jovial uncle who never frowns, and Erik, whose frown is permanently affixed to his handsome face.
Ariadne never much liked Erik Virtanen, a Finnish warlock of decent birth.
He holds himself like royalty, his nose upturned and his brief smiles insincere.
His family obtained their marks only a generation ago, a deer’s antler outlined in amber brown that stems from his neck, branches up by his ear, and along his left cheek.
Crescentia prattles on about all the sights they will visit and food they will sample, but Erik is only half listening. He runs a hand through his straw blonde hair, his eyes wandering about the room. Then he notices Ariadne’s stare. He clears his throat and refocuses on the conversation.
“You shall stay with Erik and me. Our humble abode is but a short walk from here,” Crescentia says. “We’ve so much to do! Lyon is central to many cities of France, so all the best artisanal goods are made available to us. The finest wine you will ever taste!”
“Could we not conjure such things?” Iona asks.
“I suppose, but exploring the city is far more enjoyable,” Crescentia says. “Allow me to expand your lexicon of cuisine. You will never want to conjure anything else ever again, I assure you.”
She speaks in excessive detail of a piece of Saint-Marcellin cheese that she swears made her knees buckle. Ariadne fights the urge to yawn.
“We could visit the heart of the city tomorrow, if you’d like,” Crescentia decides.
“We’d be delighted,” Iona says. “Will you join us, Erik?”
“Of course,” he says. “Though I might not stay out the entire day. There is much to prepare for Crescentia’s party.”
“Oh, how you dote on me,” Crescentia grins. “He has worked tirelessly to plan a banquet in my honor.”
“It shall be well worth the effort,” Erik says with a small smile.
“How I hate waiting,” Crescentia sighs, then shrugs. “I shall need many a distraction to help pass the time.”
She grins devilishly up at Erik, whose cheeks go red. He clears his throat.
“How are you, Ariadne?” he asks. “It has been too long.”
“Has it?” she asks, then quickly says, “I am well, thank you.”
“Euphemia sends her love,” Crescentia says. “She is most anxious to see you. Tales of your triumph at college have spread far and wide, as you can imagine.”
“That is no surprise,” Ariadne mutters.
“Witches who barely deigned to converse with me before now are begging for an invitation to my banquet,” Crescentia says to Iona. “Simply because you will be there.”
“Truly?” Iona asks, her eyes widening at the prospect.
“I turned them all away. Well, most of them. It would not do to have them gawking at you all night long,” Crescentia says.
“Perhaps my attendance will prove too much of a diversion,” Iona says.
“Nonsense. Of course, you must be there,” Crescentia says, then jokes, “Ariadne will scare them off.”
Iona gives her a disapproving look and Crescentia chastens. “I only meant that no one would dare to impose upon you with Ariadne on your arm.”
“We all knew what you meant, Crescentia,” Ariadne says, narrowing her eyes.
Her amber eyes narrow in turn. “If I meant more than I said-”
“Then I’d be sure to hear it on the wind while my back was turned,” Ariadne snaps.
“I…” Crescentia sighs and does not continue.
“There is no need for incivility,” Erik says.
Iona looks between them, at a loss. Ariadne bites back her retort as her outrage brews within her from the old wounds that still fester despite the years that have passed. She could either stay and spar with Crescentia or take her leave to calm down. For Iona’s sake, she chooses the latter.
“Please, excuse me,” Ariadne says, bowing her head slightly and walking away.
You are in desperate need of better friends , Ariadne thinks.